


Recurrence Relations

by eve11



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Vignette, celebration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 01:08:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eve11/pseuds/eve11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd been aiming for the 7745th Caralanthian Exposé to indulge in the most supreme form of Battenberg ever created by the computational cuisiniers of the time. The time co-ordinates read Earth. England. 1953.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recurrence Relations

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Round 1 of the Flash Fiction Comment-a-Thon over at the who-at-50 LJ comm. http://who-at-50.livejournal.com/2213.html. Prompt: Celebration

After their last trip to Világ, the TARDIS had gone on a proper tear. Temporal co-ordinates had always been merely a suggestion, but the imbalance this time around was plainly palpable. The Doctor tried diagnostics, tinkering, and cajoling before throwing his spanner aside in a fit of pique and huffing cross-armed into the sole console room chair, a ridiculous white wicker affair that Evelyn had adorned with all manner of impractically embroidered cushions before she'd left.

He'd intended on being stubborn, but there was no-one to pull him out of his pout, and he just frowned at the console until she chose to shudder into a landing. His eyes flicked to the external sensors. He'd been aiming for the 7745th Caralanthian Exposé to indulge in the most supreme form of Battenberg ever created by the computational cuisiniers of the time. The time co-ordinates read Earth. England. 1953.

"Is this your way of telling me to go walkabout?" he complained.

The time rotor ticked and cooled. He snatched his coat from her console, squared his shoulders, and stepped out into the midst of a street party.

It was mid-morning. Flags waved in the balmy breeze, strung between open windows from re-purposed laundry lines over the cobblestones. Tables stretched down the lane, adorned with a patchwork of good linen cloths held against the breeze by an assortment of teacups and cakes; mismatched chairs were occupied haphazardly by early adults and eager children. Bakelite radios set on sills proclaimed the start of the Coronation Ceremony, amid a buzz of activity and celebration on the street.

A tumult of children rushed past him on either side, chasing each other in their finery. He weathered the storm and was grumpily scanning the tabletops when he felt a tug on his arm. He looked down to see the top of a head of straight brown hair done up in a crooked bow, and two tiny hands fingering the coat which was still slung over his arm.

"Oh! This robe is _dreadful_." The girl, about eight years old, looked up at him. "What's its historical significance? Are you part of the Coronation ceremony? You're frightfully lost if so."

"Am I--?" The Doctor, taken aback, hefted his coat and studied her. Her shoes were scuffed, her cheek smudged with dirt, but her eyes sparkled. As they always had, he realized. He drew up his height and refused to smile. "Young lady, I am hardly a ceremonial dignitary, and I am never lost."

She was undaunted. "Did you know that the Queen's gown has thirteen floral emblems? One each for the countries of Great Britain and the Commonwealth. I read all about it; there's a leek and a shamrock and a Tudor rose--but no cats. What does the cat signify? Royal robes were done in ermine--"

"Evie!" A woman's shout arose from a nearby house. "Leave the gentleman alone, for goodness sake!"

The girl spun around, then turned and grinned at the Doctor like she was sharing a secret. "I'll talk to you later!" she said, and ran off to her mother's admonishing.

" . . . Children are to be seen, not heard. And look at the state of you; your dress is a mess! Come inside with your sister and sit, _quietly_ , Evie, the ceremony's about to start . . ."

The celebration moved to sitting rooms and television sets, and the Doctor moved on. The TARDIS dematerialized with a smooth hum and hardly a hitch. He ran a hand across the console.

"I know, old girl. I'll miss her too," he said sincerely. "But look!" His eyes brightened, and he showed off a paper napkin and the prize inside. "Battenberg!"


End file.
